


Midsummer at Moorland House

by stereo556



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Creeper Peter Lukas, Dubious Consent, Elias Bouchard Being a Bastard, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Infidelity, Jealousy, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Needs a Hug, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25411897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereo556/pseuds/stereo556
Summary: “Elias, no.”Elias eyes Jon across the table, taking a sip of wine rather than responding. The quiet chattering of the restaurant feels muffled, far away, as Jon squirms under the weight of what feels like too many eyes.“I mean you, of all people, should know that I’m hardly one for socializing with the Lukas family, nor am I one to attend 'galas' for God's sake-”Elias’s lips quirk upwards in a smirk.“Yes, Jon. I do vividly recall that my dry cleaner was never quite able to get the stain out of my tie. Though, perhaps this time you’ll be better in control of your, frankly overzealous habit of gesticulating with Pinot Noir?”Jon feels his skin prickle with a blush.“He started it,” Jon mumbles bitterly.“Yes, well, you know better than to let Peter get under your skin,” Elias sighs, “I’m afraid this isn’t a request, Jonathan. As you well know, our people have a way of doing things, and they want to meet the new Head Archivist. Besides, as I recall you do look rather dashing in a tuxedo.”
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 31
Kudos: 105





	1. An invitation not to be refused

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to my self indulgent "I couldn't get enough of Jon and Elias having a really fucked up romantic relationship fics" fic. 
> 
> General Content Warnings: I'm not planning on having any explicit rape/non-con or sex, but it will be implied. Which is to say, go elsewhere for smut, but take care if abusive relationships, emotional abuse, or anything of the sort is triggering for you. Elias is a fucked up man, and his relationships are equally fucked up. Please let me know if you feel I've missed any important tags. They will be updated as we go. 
> 
> Here's what else you need to know (or… in which I play fast and loose with canon):  
> • Most of Elias and Jon’s romantic relationship occurred while Jon was working in research. Because of that, he was somewhat familiar with the entities before taking the Head Archivist position, though only through what Elias had (selectively) told him. Elias and Jon’s romantic relationship officially ended about a month after Jon becoming Head Archivist — at which point Jon realized that he was unable to quit. Jon does not know the full extent of Elias’s powers, nor does he know about Jonah.  
> • Tim and Sasha are early Season 1 Tim and Sasha, and Jon has not seen fit to divulge any information about the Beholding or the other entities, as yet. He has, however, told Georgie everything he knows.  
> • Martin doesn’t work in the archives, but don’t worry, we’ll meet him soon.

“Elias, no.” 

Elias eyes Jon across the table, taking a sip of wine rather than responding. The quiet chattering of the restaurant feels muffled, far away, as Jon squirms under the weight of what feels like too many eyes.  
  
“I mean you, of all people, should know that I’m hardly one for socializing with the Lukas family, nor am I one to attend 'galas' for God's sake-”

Elias’s lips quirk upwards in a smirk. 

“Yes, Jon. I do vividly recall that my dry cleaner was never quite able to get the stain out of my tie. Though, perhaps this time you’ll be better in control of your, frankly, overzealous habit of gesticulating with Pinot Noir?” 

Jon feels his skin prickle with a blush. 

“He started it,” Jon mumbles bitterly. 

“Yes, well, you know better than to let Peter get under your skin,” Elias sighs, “I’m afraid this isn’t a request, Jonathan. As you well know, our people have a way of doing things, and they want to meet the new Head Archivist. Besides, as I recall you do look rather dashing in a tuxedo.” 

Jon scowls and knocks back the Scotch Elias had ordered him before remembering that it cost more than the security deposit on his flat and was probably meant to be sipped. Elias’s eyebrows twitch as they always do when Jon does something he disapproves of, but for now, he seems to have decided not to address it.

Jon stares at the flickering candle between them, the burn of alcohol tickling the back of his throat. He thinks about the way the candlelight catches Elias’s dark eyes, and the way those eyes seem so strangely at odds with his fair complexion. He finds his thoughts drifting to how they used to look at him, fuzzy with lust and hunger.

He shakes his head and glares sharply at Elias, who returns it steadily, unrepentant.

Jon doesn’t realize that he’s picking at his cuticles until Elias places a warm hand over his.

“Jonathan.”

Jon doesn’t miss the note of warning in his tone. He lets his hand go slack in Elias’s grip, shivering only slightly when Elias rubs his thumb in circular motion against his palm.

“Fine. I’ll go. Although it’s on your head if Tim accidentally burns down the archives while I’m away.”

Elias’s smirk breaks into an approving smile, and, despite himself, Jon feels warm.

Jon spares a moment to distantly wonder if Elias even understands the word "no." 

Elias pays the bill with a heavy-looking credit card, and they wait outside together as the doorman calls a taxi. Rain pounds down, and the water on the street pools into reflections of streetlights. Jon shivers and blames the Scotch when he allows himself to be tucked into the warmth of Elias’s side.

When Elias puts him in a taxi, whispering a soft goodnight before closing the door and turning away, Jon feels an infuriating mixture of disappointment and relief.

*

“Absolutely not,” Georgie practically screams.

Jon winces. “Georgie. Please, it’s fine-”

“No, Jon. No. You cannot tell me that you were coerced into a _romantic dinner_ with your evil-ex-turned-evil-boss-”

“-it was hardly romantic-”

Georgie glares at him and he wisely shuts up.

“-who then used the dinner to coerce you into some kind of fucked up trip to a remote estate to attend some kind of supernatural gala-”

“-it’s some kind of midsummer retreat at the Lukas’s estate. They’re one of the Institute’s biggest donors-”

“Presumably to either murder you, or convince you to take him back—frankly, Jon, I’m not sure which of those options is more dangerous for you—and expect me to stay calm!” she finally stops for breath and glares at Jon, where he’s curled up on her couch, cuddling a purring Admiral and resolutely staring at the floor.

“He’s my boss, Georgie,” he finally says.

“God, I wish you could just quit.” 

“You know I can’t, I-”

“I know. He made sure of that, didn’t he?” Georgie sighs and her eyes soften, “I’m just worried about you, Jon. I need you to remember what happened, because if you keep letting him tear you to pieces… I don’t want to lose you again.”

She straightens up.

“All right, Jon. Let’s go through the checklist.”

Jon groans. Since that dinner with Elias, his head has felt too large for his skull. He aches. 

“Really, Georgie? I thought we were past this.”

“I thought so too, Jon, and then you went to a _romantic dinner with your evil-ex-turned-evil-boss._ ”

“As I’ve said, it was a work -”

“Didn’t he take you to the same place you had your first date?”

“Well, I think it’s just close to the Institute, and…"

Georgie raises her eyebrows. "What did we say about defending him, Sims?" 

Jon sighs. 

"Point taken. Checklist away, Barker.”

“What is Elias?”

“A cheating narcissist.”

“How did he treat you?”

“Poorly. Very poorly, in fact.”

“What do you deserve?”

“Fidelity, kindness, and respect.”

“And are you deserving of love?

“Yes.”

“And what are we going to do until you actually believe that?”

“Repeat it.”

The responses flow easily off of Jon’s tongue, even if the sentiments behind them are more… difficult. The checklist has been drilled into him by Georgie on countless nights of drunken pep-talks that started after Jon had showed up on her doorstep one night with a bruise on his cheek and a backpack full of hastily packed clothes.

In the ensuing silence, he knows they are both remembering the month Jon spent crashing on Georgie’s couch, quietly staring at a dark wall and startling at loud noises, before he decided he’d had _quite enough of that, thank you_ , and managed to find his own flat and pull himself together. Mostly.

“Just… can you text me me? While you’re away?”

“It will only be for a few days. I will be fine. It will be fine. I promise.”

“You know you can’t promise that, Jon.”

“I- suppose you’re right.”

*

“Good morning, boss man, you look like hell!”

Tim’s bright chirps add force to the fireplace pokers that seem to be agonizingly sinking through Jon’s temples.

“Tim,” Jon grunts out by way of greeting, brusquely pushing past him on the way to the break room in search of pain killers. He’d spent the night alternating between dreams of Elias’s hands caressing his body and Elias’s hands wrapped around his neck. He’d almost been surprised to see his throat unmarred by bruises in the morning. 

He shakes off the memory, downs the painkillers, and shuffles to his office, eyes open but unseeing. He can get Tim started on the Lensik statement while he’s out of town, at least that will give him something to do to at least try and keep him out of trouble, and Sasha…

Jon’s shin slams into something sharp in front of his office door and he swears loudly. Sasha jumps, surprised, and Tim attempts to swallow his laughter.

“All right there, boss? Rosie called earlier this morning to say Elias was sending something down for you. We were expecting a statement, but, well, as you can see this is a little bit bigger than that.”

“Yes, thank you Tim, I can see that,” Jon replied tersely, rubbing his aching shin.

Jon briefly considers lugging the box into his office, but decides that he’s already embarrassed himself quite enough for one morning. Jon leans wearily against the wall and looks down at the box.

“Tim, would you?”

Tim jumps up from his desk with a brief salute and rummages for a box cutter. Blade in hand, he makes quick work of the box, revealing a expensive-looking leather suitcase. Jon eyes in warily and notices that it’s monogrammed with his initials.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Jo mutters under his breath.

Tim and Sasha look at the suitcase, then at each other.

“Um, Jon?” Sasha finally asks, “Why did Elias send you a suitcase?”

Jon grabs the offending object by the handle and shoves it into his office, noticing with dismay that the leather is supple and soft.

“I’ll be gone Friday,” he barks, “Institute business. Sasha’s in charge, but Tim, I want the follow-up on the Lensik statement on my desk first thing, Monday.”

With that Jon withdraws into his office and slams the door with more force than necessary. Despite himself, he opens the damn suitcase. It’s full of crisp clothing and a note.

“No need to pack anything else, Jonathan. I know how you are. I’ll pick you up at 8am.” – E


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever gotten into a fight in a car with your ex? It's terrible right? Now imagine it's Elias.

Jon is not a morning person. He has never been a morning person. Elias _knows_ that he was not a morning person. Elias has been on the receiving end of how very much Jon _was not_ a morning person.

And Jon does not appreciate Elias smirking at him from the driver’s seat of a discrete black car at 8am on the dot.

“You’ve always been infuriatingly prompt,” Jon mutters beneath his breath.

“Charming as always, Jonathan,” Elias responds pleasantly.

Jon swallows his reply. It’s too early for this. It’s too early for _all_ of this. Not for the first time, Jon curses the sequence of choices that have led to this moment. Jon fixes his gaze resolutely out the car window and tries to quell his trembling hands that yearn to hold a cigarette. Every part of his body is screaming at him to get out of this car, and just… out.

Jon hears Elias’s disapproving sigh and instinctively hunches his shoulders forward, collapsing in on himself and though protecting his vulnerable midsection could somehow shield him from… Well, from whatever Elias is planning to say next.

“Jonathan, it doesn’t have to be like this.”

Jon picks his words carefully.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Elias.”

“You ended things between us, yes. I won’t pretend that it didn’t hurt. I am only a man, after all. But I’m not angry with you, Jonathan. There should be no doubts that you are important to me.”

Jon shuts his eyes for a moment. The warm morning sun filtering in through the windows of the car feels mocking even as it warms his cheeks.

“No matter what you think of me, we will always be acolytes of the same god. I can be a great ally to you if you’ll just let me, Jon.”

_Jon._

If Jon didn’t know better, he would think that Elias was genuine. But no, this is _Elias_. All hears is the patronizing, cloying tone that always lulled him into a false sense of security before tearing him apart. It pokes at something deep inside of him, until the hurt is like a spear through his body that leaves him estranged from his better senses.

“Yes, it seemed as though I was very important to you while you had your lips wrapped around another man’s cock,” Jon spits, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth, not because they aren’t true, but because he knows better than to show vulnerability around Elias, damn it.

Elias wrinkles his nose.

Jon had once found the expression charming. Now he tastes bile in the back of his throat.

“There’s no need to be crude, Jonathan. I would prefer to speak like adults.”

Jon exhales loudly through his nose, as he tries to stem the flood of images that threaten to invade his conscious mind. His head throbs more than ever.

“There is nothing left to say about us, Elias. As I have said again and again, _I_ would prefer to keep our relationship strictly professional, in future. Please respect that.”

Elias sighs.

“I’ve always given you your space, Jonathan,” he says softly, “And that won’t change now. But I am not so callous that it doesn’t pain me to see you deny yourself.”

Jon stifles his gasp when Elias tenderly grabs his hand and lifts it to his face. It is only when Elias’s lips are around his thumb that Jon notices his cuticles have gone raw and bloody. He closes his eyes for a moment and allows Elias’s tongue to trace the shape of his appendage, sepia-toned memories flooding his sight.

Jon doesn’t know why his body betrays him as it does, around Elias. It is as though he becomes a puppet, his personhood drilled down to the base instinct of a simple desire to _perform._ To _please._

Elias releases him, and Jon opens his eyes. There is a bit of blood at the edge of Elias’s mouth when he smiles.

This vision enters Jon’s head with a searing intensity, its temporal _wrongness_ chafing against Jon’s sense of reality.

*

_Elias is sorry. Elias has changed. Elias isn’t pleasant when he’s jealous. Elias cannot stand it when Jon is angry. Elias cannot bear it when Jon is cold._

_“Jon, please, will you at least sit down?”_

Don’t sit. _Jon sits._ Get up. _Jon stays. Elias wraps his fingers around Jon’s forearms and squeezes._

_Because Elias loves him. Elias knows him, as no other can._

_Jon meets his eyes and looks at himself in dark pupils. His face is all odd angles there, distorted._

_Pressure fills Jon’s chest and pushes up his throat. Elias wraps his hands tightly around the back of a trembling neck._ Move. _Jon remains still._

_“I know that you love me, Jonathan,” Elias says, “I will give you what you need. I am the only one who can.”_

_Jon’s breaths are shallow and fast. He is crying again._ Stop. _Jon’s shoulders jerk erratically._ Get up.

_Elias smiles. He relaxes his grip and moves to embrace Jon, bundling him in warm arms. “I’m here, Jon. I’ll always be here, I promise.”_

_Jon burrows his face into Elias’s shoulder, closing his eyes and imagining himself somewhere dark and safe. After a long while he pulls away, eyes sticky and swollen._

_“Oh Jonathan,” Elias says looking down, “Look what you did to my shirt.”_

*

Jon wakes with a start, his face pressed against a cold window. He looks outside the car, only to see swirling mist.

“I’ve always felt the Lonely were a bit _much_ with their weather motifs, don’t you agree?”

Jon wants to give a knowing look to Elias’s eye cufflinks and the subtle tattoo on his left ankle but instead-

“ _What the hell did you do?_ ”

Elias shudders and assesses Jon with what looks a little bit like pride before turning his eyes back onto the road and turning into a driveway.

“You fell asleep, Jonathan.”

They’ve reached an imposing wrought iron gate, and the car idles as they wait, presumably, to be allowed entrance.

There is a buzzing in Jon’s head. His mouth feels dry. If they’ve arrived at the estate that must mean he’s been asleep for the last few hours, but he can’t… he doesn’t remember…

The gate opens slowly and Elias hands Jon a monogrammed handkerchief.

“Clean yourself up, Jonathan.”

Jon wipes his face with the handkerchief and tries to make sense of the buzzing images in his brain that now seem to be overlapping with fog. This damn place feels oppressive with loneliness, and his insides feel rubbed raw by loss he thought long buried. He scrubs at his hands until the worst of the dried blood is gone. He squints at himself in a mirror and tries to understand why his eyes are swollen and bloodshot.

Nothing for it. It’s not like he’s ever been known as a beauty.

Moorland House almost looks to sit on a storm cloud, and Jon watches the way it looms over them as they zig zag up the sprawling driveway. The many windows of the house remind him of eyes devoid of life, nestled into intricate woodwork and spiraling vines.

As soon as Elias pulls into a circular drive, a pale and freckled young man in a grey servant’s uniform —a footman? Jon’s not really sure — scurries out to take their bags, while a tall man, his face shrouded by a chauffeur’s cap, takes Elias’s keys. Elias nods a wordless thanks, and takes long strides towards the front door of the manor. Jon hurries to keep up, struck with the notion that if he loses sight of Elias he will never find him again.

Jon hears the scrape of the footman’s boots on the driveway as he swears softly at the weight of their bags. Before his mind catches up with his body, Jon turns and finds himself face to face with the man, staring up into warm green eyes. They widen for a moment when they meet Jon’s before the man ducks his head, leaving Jon with a view of a mop of hair that, if he were anywhere else, he would swear was red, but in the fog is more of a muted auburn.

“Can I, er, help?” Jon asks awkwardly.

He gets a surprised huff of a laugh in answer.

“Of course not sir, you’re, um, I believe you’re expected in the great hall and well, um, this is sort of my job, even if I’m a bit rubbish at it… but honestly who needs this many things for a weekend-”

His head jerks up at Jon with enough force that it makes Jon wince sympathetically.

“Oh my God, I didn’t mean. I mean, I’m so-”

Jon snorts and waves him off.

“To be perfectly honest, I agree with you. But my… colleague… is rather particular about his appearance, I’m afraid, and that translates into.. well.”

Jon gestures at the array of bags that the servant is currently trying to balance in his arms.

“Jonathan, do catch up. It’s impolite to keep our hosts waiting.” Elias’s voice wafts across the driveway and Jon tries to tame his face into a neutral expression.

“I suppose duty calls, then. I’m Jon, by the way.”

The footman’s smile is warm and genuine and completely out of place at Moorland House.

“Martin.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, this got angsty.

Elias’s heels clip on the marble floor of Moorland House’s great hall as Jon falls into step just behind the taller man, twisting his fingers and doing his best not to fidget nervously. There are people in the room, engaged in subdued conversations in small groups, but somehow that only serves to make the chamber seem more gaping. A large fireplace exudes flickering light that does nothing to mitigate the misty chill that permeates the house’s walls.

A tall man in a well tailored suit catches Elias’s eye and approaches from across the room. Tall and thin, with eyes shadowed by a prominent brow bone, he looks down on both Elias and Jon.

“Nathaniel.” Elias nods his head in greeting.

“Elias. Glad you could join us. And you brought your…”

“Nathaniel Lukas, meet my Archivist, Jonathan Sims.”

Jon holds out a hand, which Nathaniel grips reluctantly before dropping it with distaste and taking a subtle step back.

“I see.”

Jon glances at Elias for guidance, unsure if he’s meant to say something, but Elias ignores him in favour of taking Nathaniel by the arm.

“There are some things we need to discuss privately, Nathaniel.”

Jon hesitates, unsure if he’s meant to follow. Elias spares him a glance over his shoulder.

“Get yourself a drink, Jonathan. We’ll speak later.”

Jon tries to suppress the feeling of abandonment. He shouldn’t _want_ Elias’s company. The last thing it should be is comforting for God’s sake. But Jon suddenly feels very… alone. He is awkward and ruffled and feels sticky with dried sweat. He’s in an echoing hall, surrounded by dour looking people speaking in hushed tones who seem reluctant to acknowledge his existence.

Jon sighs and looks around for a bar. Alcohol surely can’t… hurt in this situation. At the very least it will give him something to hold onto.

He’s barely taken a step when he feels a hand clap down on his shoulder with more force then necessary. He jumps as irritation and fear spike in his stomach in equal measures.

He should have sensed him coming. He should have at least heard footsteps or smelled saltwater. He feels half-blind in this place and it is disorienting to feel cut off from his god. How exactly does Peter _do_ that?

“Ah, if isn’t my ex-husband’s little _boyfriend_. And here I was worried his whole affair was going to be dreadfully dull.”

Peter smiles a smile that never touches his eye and presses a glass of amber liquor into Jon’s hand.

“Still a Scotch man, I assume?”

Jon accepts the glass, takes a long drink, and tries not to choke.

“Hello, Peter.”

“How are things, Jon? I have to say, I know that Elias has you well-trained, but I wasn’t expecting to see you at a rite of the Lonely.”

Jon’s curiosity outweighs his irritation, despite himself.

“A rite of the Lonely? What does that mean?”

Peter smiles at him blandly.

“He’ll never admit it, but Nathaniel _does_ love to show off. And after Gertrude, well… I suppose he feels the acolytes of the Eye need a reminder.”

“Gertrude? What the hell does Gertrude have to do with any of this?”

Peter’s smile gets toothy and predatory.

“Elias didn’t tell you? I thought you lovers shared everything beneath the sheets.”

Jon drains his Scotch and shoves the empty glass at Peter.

“Elias and I no longer share anything to do with sheets, Peter. As I recall, you two seem much better _suited_ for that, after all. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Jon turns and all but runs out of the hall, trying to follow the route back to the front doors. He swears as he notices that his entire body is shaking. He feels as though he is watching himself from far away when he wrenches open the front doors and slumps onto the driveway. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. There’s no signal. Of course there’s no signal. Georgie is going to kill him.

Death sentence already upon him, he reaches for his cigarettes and inhales with relief. He realizes that he must look ridiculous, a figure hunched on the driveway of an imposing manor, wet seeping through his pants where he’s carelessly strewn himself, careless of the mist that is almost but not quite rain. His bones ache with a damp cold. He has never felt quite so hopelessly alone. Even at his parent’s funeral, even when Georgie left their apartment in Oxford, tears streaking down her cheeks-

He imagines there might be a view of a world beyond Moorland House, were it not for the impenetrable fog. Somewhere, not too far away, there’s at least a damn Tesco. And somewhere, only a few hours away, there’s Georgie and the Admiral, probably watching TV in a warm living room. She’s probably with her new girlfriend. That shouldn’t hurt. It _doesn’t_ hurt. He was rubbish at being a boyfriend, after all. They’re much better suited as friends. But, God, what does she get out of their relationship?

He needs to be better, so that she doesn’t leave him too, but he has no idea how. Maybe he’ll ask her? The right thing to do is to just ask her what the rules are. If she tells him what the rules are then he can do what he needs to do to make her happy, and then maybe she’ll stay in his life even though he’s… even though he’s not… even though he can’t… be the person that everyone wants him to be.

He pulls out his phone again to call her— _right_.

He times his breath through inhales and exhales of smoke that grits through his lungs. Elias hates it when he smokes. There is some small satisfaction in that, even if he’s clearly a social inept excuse for an archivist who has just thoroughly humiliated himself in front of a room full of institute donors, _again_. And Peter. The confident, unflappable man that Elias truly loves.

Better to anger Elias than to disappoint him, he thinks wryly as he stamps out his first cigarette and lights another. 

Shame creeps up his throat and Jon wonders if it is going to choke him. He will never have the calm, confident air of Elias or Peter. He doesn’t know how to talk to normal people, much less servants of eldritch gods. There’s a reason that no one has ever actually wanted him, besides Elias. Who would? Who _could_?

And he’s lost that now too. Threw it in the man’s face, when... could he really be blamed for wanting more than Jon could give him? Should he really have expected anyone to be satisfied by _Jon_ alone? He should take what he can get, should listen, should figure out how to be better, do better… If he could just be good enough, then maybe-

He hears someone clear his throat behind him and clambers to his feet ungracefully, horribly aware of the patches of damp that now mar his grey trousers.

“Um, Jon?” A tentative voice asks, and Jon turns wordlessly to meet the eyes of the footman—Martin, he remembers.

Jon takes another drag of his cigarette and stares at him, trying to pull himself out of his thoughts. Something about the man’s face in front of him seems too bright to be in this place. Too real.

“Martin,” he finally answers.

“Are you- I just mean… Would you like me to show you to your room? It’s a little- I just mean- It might be a little more comfortable, out of the rain.”

Jon blinks. He drops his cigarette and stomps on it, feeling a tiny glint of misplaced pride at leaving some kind of mark on this oppressive place, even if it’s in the form of litter.

“Yes, yes I’d like that, Martin.”

He wordlessly follows the man through winding halls and staircases, as Martin babbles nervously. They don’t meet another soul.

“So, you and your colleague—I’m afraid I didn’t catch his name—will be in the east wing. The rest of the family have their own quarters in the west. I wouldn’t recommend going over there, if you can help it. It’s a bit… cold.”

Martin shudders.

“Anyway, there should be more guests coming tomorrow, but for now I believe it will be just the two of you. He’ll be in the blue room, and you’ll be right here, in the yellow.”

Martin opens the door to a dusty room, with a four-poster bed, a desk, a wardrobe, a dressing table, and the most God-awful greying yellow wallpaper Jon has ever seen.

Martin must notice the look on his face because he winces subtly.

“I’ll just… I’ll come back with a cup of tea for you, Jon. Try and warm up. You’ll find your things in the wardrobe.”

Jon can’t bring himself to say anything as he hears Martin retreat from the room and close the door with a click. He undresses mechanically, and sighs as he opens the wardrobe to see the clothing Elias packed for him.

He has no idea what he’s supposed to wear. He has no idea what’s appropriate. He picks a shirt and trousers at random and slumps on the bed.

He needs Elias.


End file.
